


Sansa Magica

by PurpleMoon3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: AU, Crossover, Don't Go into the Black Cells, Gen, Magical Girls, Margaery has her own secrets, Red Wedding, Robb is confused, Sansa is BAMF, Time Travel, Tywin is annoyed, though it takes a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa learns that while life is not a song, some wishes do come true - at cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story intended to be written in short, drabble like chapters.

When they first come to the Capital the grief of loosing Lady is still poignant enough that the flashes of white Sansa thinks she sees are just flights of longing, or perhaps one of the many cats Arya has taken to chasing.  Quickly the excitement that is Kingslanding pushes all thoughts for her missing companion from her mind.  There are tournaments, and dinners, and long walks in the garden.  Her betrothed is the sweetest, most thoughtful of princes.  Arya is being mysterious, and wild, but as she has yet to intrude on Sansa's business it is not so bad.  It is as if her sister isn't even in Kingslanding most of the time. 

They call her Lady Stark, and Little Dove, and the Queen invites her to lunches.

Her heart is lightened, but the brief sightings of white persist, like the flashing of a banner in high wind.  It must be a cat, Sansa thinks, though the tail she has seen vanishing is more kin to a fox.  And anyway, she consoles herself while twirling a white rose between her fingers, Lady would not have liked the city.

Her father is Hand, respected and powerful, and all is better than she ever dared dream.

Then the Fat King Robert dies and her father is...

Not.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa walks where she is lead, eats like a bird pecking at whatever is put before her.  Golden plates and goblets reflect her own sad, beautiful face.  At least when she had Jeyne there was someone else to think of, but she has not seen her friend in days and all there is to occupy her mind is the screams.  The sound of cut flesh is horribly quiet for all that it means.   

All she had wanted was to stay in Kingslanding with Joffrey.  He had been so kind, so handsome, surely he would be merciful?

She hadn't thought the Queen...

She hadn't thought Joffrey...

She hadn't thought.

"I'm sorry."  She whispers so quietly that not even the guardsmen lurking like shadowcats can hear.  She cannot find it within her to cry.  Father watches with eyes unseeing, mouth slack in death.  Part of her wants to look away, to run, and another part wants to climb the wall and wrap her arms around Father's head.  Never could she have imagined such cruelty.

She hadn't wanted-!

But it is exactly what she wanted. She is still in Kingslanding, after all, still betrothed to Joffrey and will one day be queen.  She will call Cersei -the woman who accused her father of Treason all to put a boy younger than Robb on the throne- mother.

She hadn't thought.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

What passed for a Godswood in Kingslanding was quiet, as always.  Her escorts did not follow her into the little garden, and even the pages of the court sent with requests - _invitations-_ would pause so long as she was kneeling.  It was the only time she had peace, when she wasn't required to smile and sing little lies.  The Gods did not care if she hated Joffrey.  They did not scowl when she closed her eyes and opened her weeping heart for justice.  They were her Father's gods, as immutable and unknown as always, and she did not know how she was supposed to beseech them.

But the arrival of her Moonblood was both a blessing and a curse.  The Queen had laughed, that small drunken laugh that was anything but jovial, and had taken Sansa's panicking, ash stained hands in hers with a congratulations.  Now she was a real woman; her flower ripe enough to be plucked.  Soon, once the war business was settled, she would marry her one true love.

Sansa would be Queen, Joffrey's children would ensure lasting peace between North and South.

So long as Stannis did not kill them all, first.

She continued kneeling in a nest of fallen leaves, hands pressed to the grinding pain that had arrived with her flowering, and wondered if Lord Stannis' Red God would answer her prayers any better than the Seven or her Father's did.  

"Greetings, Lady Sansa."

It was a child's voice. Sansa opened her eyes to see who had been sent to steal her peace only to find a small creature staring at her.

The fur was white as freshly fallen snow, with markings and eyes the red of spilled blood.  The colors of a Weirwood tree.  It spoke, but no sound came from it's unmoving mouth.

"You may call me Kyubey."  


	4. Chapter 4

Cersei turned the poison bottle in her hand. She watched the glass sparkle like a jewel belaying the contents within. It was like the Stark girl that way, almost as beautiful -for Cersei was a Lannister Queen no commoner's rouge could compare to her golden tresses- as Cersei herself but concealing something dull and weak and yet dangerous inside. By some miracle of the Gods, or rather the Tyrells, they had survived.

Through green hellfire and the aide of their once-enemies Kingslanding had _held_ against Stannis. They held until her Lord Father could arrive and put a sword through whatever forces her good-brother had left. By some other miracle, perhaps that of _his_ mad god, the traitor lord himself had escaped the lion's claws. Proof, then, that the gods didn't care or simply squabbled over the kingdoms of mortal men like fat drunkards betting on ponies.

But there were stories...

They said the Ghost of Renly fought on the Blackwater, his Baratheon banner demoralizing next to the flaming heart of his elder brother's.

They said the land itself trembled, thorny brambles rising to trip and choke the invaders.

They said her son retreated to the arms of his drunken mother, a bastard of incest king in name only.

They said, they said, they said. Rumors and lies to make the tears more palatable.

Cersei turned the bottle in her hand. It was a truly beautiful bottle; perhaps only two thimblefuls within but more than enough to slay ten men. Sansa had tried to be brave, but her eyes wandered since the battle, chasing ghosts only she could see. Her mind wandered as much as her eyes; listening, Cersei supposed, to those same ghosts. Strangely, the Tyrell whore's eyes sometimes flicked to those same ghosts as if to inspire the little dove's confidence as they walked together through the gardens.

Cersei clutched the bottle in her hand and poured a fresh cup of wine. Perhaps it was time she do some weeding of her own.


	5. Chapter 5

"Good Morning, Sansa." The little god says cheerily as she wakes, red eyes bright but expression the same pleasant blankness as always. He has promised to grant her one wish; one miracle no matter how fantastic or impossible. In exchange she must _fight_.  The thought terrifies her more than the seige did.  Arya, Sansa thinks, would have jumped at this small god's offer.  Arya would have wished for a great sword of Valyrian steel, Sansa is sure, and would have rushed to the fray with a smile on her horsey face and not a thought in her head.

 

(She wonders if he could make her Lord father live again, but Joffrey has not taken her to see his head in weeks and she suspects his bones have been scattered or buried in place that is not Winterfell.)

Sansa blinks and smiles, alone as they are for the moment.  The little god is chewing on her dinner's left over fruit, his tail swishing with more energy than usual.  Like Lady's used to as she sat at her feet and ate slices of bread and meat from Sansa's hand.  The corners of Sansa's mouth pull up even as her eyes tingle.  "Good Morning, Kyubey.  Did you sleep well?"

"I don't sleep."  The little god of snow and blood and magic says.  It is an oddly comforting statement.  He leaps from the table to the chair, to her bed.  His coat is so soft, and slick, almost as though someone spun fur from silk.  "Have you decided on your wish yet. my Lady?"

"I am sorry, Kyubey, but I have not."  She would have wished for Stannis' victory, but it had seemed such a sure thing that she had not, and then after... she has had her wishes granted before, and they were not at all what she thought. 

Lady Margery had taken her hand, rubbed a thumb over the bruise on her wrist and made the pain ebb to nothing while whispering caution.

("Can I not trust him?  Is he a false god?  A trick?"

"He is a _god_ , sweet Sansa, or as much as one you or I will ever meet.  But gods are not mortal men, they do not think as men do, you _must_ remember this when you make your contract.  If you make one.")

Her brother Robb was at war, and so far he had not lost a battle.

She could not be frivolous in her wish, so long as she was surrounded by enemies. 

And her father's head taught her that wishes, too, had consequences.


	6. Chapter 6

Lady Margaery is both beautiful and terrifying.

She had appeared that evening in the strangest clothes to ask for her company.  _There is something you must see_ , she said, _before you make your decision_.  They had slipped past guards, servants, and lords wandering to their nightly rendezvous' whilst she and Margaery made their way to the Black Cells.  Sansa had stood on those stone steps, afraid, but Margaery's hand was warm in hers and the little god trailed at their heels.

Oh, but Margaery was glorious and lovely to behold.

The rich green leather of her skirt flashed creamy skin as she spun to avoid a lance of brittle, aging hair.  The bracers of wrapped thorns matched the rose chestplate that curled around her breasts and protected her heart.  She fought like the wind, one moment in danger the next attacking the monster's back with a slender sword nearly as long as Ice was.  She spread her fingers and thrust her arm up, and brambles rose from the ground to pin the... witch.

There were other things in the shadows, mouths full of sharp teeth and sharper, insane laughter.  The world had become saturated in contrasting black and white, and she screamed when the color of Margaery's blood painted the seeping brick of the witch-warped labyrinth.  She screamed, clutching the little god and the golden, glimmering rose that protected her; unable to fight to need to run to the only friend she had.

Her assistance, however small it would have been, was unnecessary.

A garden of golden roses blossomed between Warrior and Witch, a sweet-smelling wall to defend her, and with a wave of her hand those torn brambles renewed their hold on the inhuman beast. 

But the Lady Margaery touched a light to her bleeding leg, and the thorny chains ripped the Witch apart like dogs after a fresh kill.


	7. Chapter 7

Perhaps, Lord Tywin considered as he perused a tome that had brought about the end of two Hands, he should have come to Kingslanding sooner.  While there had been rumors of how Joffrey treated his hostage -and that truly irked him; hostage, meaning one, when he could have had three and brought the North to heal with a still living Lord Eddard instead of a dead Martyr- Tywin had assumed they were but simple rumors.  The Seven Kingdoms were at War, and a five-way one at that, so if Robb Stark was a wolf-man who drank the blood of his enemies and Stannis Baratheon was the messiah of some backwater eastern religion King Joffrey stripping and beating little girls -his own betrothed, and did that not bring up uncomfortable memories of Aerys- was tame in comparison.

A pity, then, that particular nugget of gossip appeared to be true.

Cersei had failed, that much was certain, whatever mothering abilities she had began and ended at the womb.  As Queen Regent she should have been able to curb her son, to override his impulsive nature, but she gave the power of Rule to a child.  An _idiot_ child.  Perhaps, Tywin sighed as he traced lineages and legacies, if Cersei had waited for this mess to finish and Joffrey to mature a bit before placing the crown on his head...

Well, Tywin had played goatherd to mad kings before and his grandson certainly expressed the correct amount of fear and respect one should show his elders when faced with his Hand.  Tyrion had done some good in putting the very real public beatings to a stop, and had reported that the Hound had rescued young Sansa Stark from a rape, but each time Tywin caught that riotous red hair wavering at the edge of court he also caught sight of new or fading _flowers._   Less so, of late, but then palace gossips whispered that the little wolf no longer screamed, did not whimper, and everyone knew her eyes wandered as she whispered and smiled at nothing.

Yes, Tywin groused as he sighed considered his options, he should have ignored Robb Stark's army and come straight to the capitol.  Then maybe Cersei's little dove would still be sane.  Even with her considerable inheritance, though that could easily be called into question with her family in rebellion and Winterfell itself a smoldering ruin, few would be willing to marry their sons off to an invalid.  It would be like marrying Lollys Stokeworth, and Tywin wouldn't trust anyone willing to take _her_ with a holdfast in Dorne.  He could barely tolerate the Tyrells.

Yet, with Sansa lay some hope of Northern obedience.  They certainly could not send her back and make the disgrace public knowledge, and no one had seen Arya since before her father was beheaded... ah. 

Tywin rose and walked to the door.  He eyed the nervous page that had so obviously had his ear pressed against the formerly closed door and snapped out.  "Go find Lord Tyrion and tell him to report to the Hand's chambers."

"Yes, my Lord, right away."  The page, a blond cousin on his mother's side, performed an awkward little bobble and vanished.

Tywin stalked back to his desk.  Tyrion would damn well be grateful he got any wife at all, and Arya was a child younger even than her mad sister.  Most likely a dead child, but the Northern Lords didn't need to know that.  He dipped quill in ink and began writing.  Surely for as many brothels as Littlefinger owned he would have at least one Northern whore willing to go home a Lady.


	8. Chapter 8

"Don't stare so, girl, little birds are bound to get ideas."  The Lady Olenna scolded, though her tone was not near as acerbic as her unofficial title implied.  She sniffed and ate another prune as Sansa dragged her eyes away from Margaery's flawless skin, turning them down to the little god in her lap.  He was a warm and comforting weight, and for all that he maintained a somewhat regal, calm, proper demeanor his eating habits were anything but.  He was still trying to lick the crumbs of lemon cake Sansa had feed him off his nose. 

"I am sorry, it was very rude of me-"

"Sweet girl, there is nothing to forgive."  Margaery smiled and patted the younger girl's hand.  Sansa could feel the heat in her cheeks at the thoughts of what they must have thought rushing about her mind.  It wasn't like, like _that_.

"No!  I hadn't meant. I don't, it's just that you have no," Sansa dropped her voice low and winced.  "Scars."

Because Sansa had seen Margaery fight, twice, and neither time had she gotten away unscathed.  The first had been the worst of the two, when that aging... thing... had driven a pike of impossibly strong, brittle hair into her leg.  The second time had been less trying, less of a battle, as great cats of shadow danced on the walls of a nursery that did not truly exist.  Still, the smaller of the two witches had been less human and more a great pile of daggers bound by blood, and numerous smaller cuts had opened on Margaery's arms and face during the confrontation.

The next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lowered her voice to match the conspiring tone Sansa implied.  "If you make a contract with Kyubey, you'll find that increased healing speed is one of the better boons, and so scarring is very rare.  The pains that come from our moonblood are certainly lessened, as well."

"One of the only perks if you ask me."  The Queen of Thorns scoffed, eying the little god with contempt.  "I certainly wish I hadn't made one, and you really should use your head more, girl, gods can know what you're thinking without you having to _say_ it.  I know for a fact you don't speak aloud in the godswood."

Sansa jerked her head up, blinking at Lady Olenna.  She had of course known Margaey's grandmother to be aware of Kyubey, but she had thought it more from the open, trusting relationship all the Tyrells -and once Starks- seemed to have.  It was impossible to imagine the frail looking old woman fighting with anything but her cutting words.  "You're a,"  the phrase seemed so bizarre in relation to Lady Olenna. "Magical girl?"

The little god sounded strangely sour, as though he disliked the Lady Olenna as much as she him.  "More like a magical crone."

"I foolishly used my wish to get out of a horrid betrothal to a Targaryen.  What I got was a level of expertise that I put to good use, and my pick of the unmarried.  Unfortunately I hadn't yet learned that beauty does not equal brains, and here we are."

"Grandmother does not like to use magic, preferring to snuff out the cause of Witches before they have time to grow."  Margaery admitted.  "I've only ever seen her use her powers once, with my brother Willas..."

"Fat lot of good it did, I was too rusty to get it _right_."

"But he is alive, which is more than the Maester's could have done."

Lady Olenna popped another prune in her mouth and continued to glare at Kyubey, the silent verbal sparring between woman and god leaving a quiet peace in the garden.  Kyubey could choose to keep others out of his private conversations if he so desired.

Sansa carefully stitched the silhouette of Winterfell onto a black background. 

She wondered what Margaery's wish had been, and if it was considered impolite to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Olenna is a very, very special case in a Magical Girl growing old. She avoids direct battle with witches to both cut down on her magic usage, which helps keep her soul gem clear, and prevents death in battle. She also trained outside of magic so when she did have to fight her she would have more than magic to support her, a theory she had passed down to Margaery. The Tyrells as a whole know about 'Magical Girls' and one of the ways they keep Witch population down in Highgarden is by having extensive charity and wellfare programs, which prevents witches from having an appropriate breeding ground of despair and hopelessness. Currently, Margaery is being run ragged trying to get Kingslanding under control and Lady Olenna doesn't approve, but it is Margaery's choice.


	9. Chapter 9

If he touched her, she would scream. 

(They told her she was to marry the Imp, and she smiled her Lollys smile.)

If he touched her, she would wish him dead, never born, that he had perished during the Battle with Stannis along with Ser Mandon.  The Little God was elsewhere, but his presence in her mind was as bright as ever.  He claimed she had great potential. 

(She seriously considered Wishing then and there, nearly did, but Robb was still fighting.  Kyubey, Margaery; all made sure she knew she only got one wish.  What if her family needed it, later?)

If he touched her, Sansa decided, she would wish herself barren.  Or that all the fires of Stannis' god rain down on Kingslanding.  She would die before she let the blood of her father's murders mingle with her own. 

(When the doors to the Sept had opened she wrapped her feigned madness about her like a cloak.  Her shoulders were bare.  She was under no one's protection.)

"Y-you,"  Her not-Husband slurred, and Sansa began working loose the ties to her dress.  Tradition would have had the guests strip her of the dress, but none had wanted to, not when she stared straight ahead like a standing corpse.  Tyrion was not her husband.  He was not.  She was of the North, she had not said the words, and her father's gods had not seen fit to witness.  "Stop."

(Joffery had taken away the elegantly carved stool, smirking.  Lord Tyrion had not been able to reach her shoulders without it and she pretended not to notice his struggles.  Not until Lady Olenna stalked up the stairs, breaking so many traditions, and it was a Tyrell hand that placed the Lannister red and gold over her. 

The smile that the Lady had given Lord Tywin was nothing but challenge.)

Everyone said she was a Lannister, now, but she was _not_.  If he touched her she would wish the whole family down to the deepest hell.

"You do not believe me, I am sure, but my lady... _I am sorry._ "

He did not touch her.

 


End file.
